


Trumpet Voluntary

by Sturzkampf



Category: Widdershins (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Inspired by Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 18:36:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15712785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sturzkampf/pseuds/Sturzkampf
Summary: From the memoirs of Professor Sir Benjamin Thackerey FRSW DMg KCMGA piece of music awakens unhappy memories





	Trumpet Voluntary

Heinrich Wolfe finished playing and lowered his violin.

“What did you think?” he asked. I exchanged a look with O’Malley.

“It was… it was very nice,” I said politely.

“Yeah, alright, but, is Schubert really s’pposed to sound like that?” asked O’Malley. He does not understand politeness.

“But yes. You did not like my attempt at his _Lieder_? Perhaps my playing is not so…”

“Nuffin’ wrong wi’ yer playin’. But I likes a proper tune, y’know?”

“Ah, then perhaps you will like this more.” Wolfe raised his violin and played a few bars of truly beautiful music that I had never heard before. It even brought a smile to O’Malley’s face.

“What was that?” I asked.

“That is from Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony. It is called ‘ _The Shepherd’s Hymn_ ’. It is rather lovely is it not?”

“Beethoven does tunes? I thought he was above such things.”

“You do him a disservice. His Ninth Symphony also contains a very nice melody.”

“Two out of nine is not a high success rate. Anyway, will you play us the rest?”

“The rest? That is all there is.”

“Really? Didn’t he bother to write anymore? His symphonies go on for ever. Surely he must have composed something to fill up the time.”

“In fact, the last movement plays that motif in several different ways and then proceeds to a series of clever variations.”

“Variations? You mean where they play everything except the tune and you are expected to fill in the gap yourself by humming the tune in your head?”

“I am afraid friend Ben, that you will never be a connoisseur of modern music.”

“I have no desire to become so sophisticated that the sound of discord sounds better to my ears than proper harmony.”

O’Malley drew on his disgusting roll-up and blew a cloud of malodorous smoke at the ceiling.

“Yeh, so, if ye’ve both done with all the fancy talk, mebbe we can get back to the playin’.”

“Of course. Perhaps this will be more to your taste.” Wolfe began to play a fine baroque composition that I knew well. He could not know that it was an unfortunate choice, but after a couple of minutes, he suddenly stopped in the middle of a bar and looked at me apologetically, breaking my train of thought.

“Ah, _es tut mir leid_. I think that you do not like this piece either.”

“B*ll*cks!” exclaimed O’Malley. “I were enjoyin’ that!”

“No, I see that Ben was not appreciating my playing. I understand. The piece was originally written for trumpet and my poor attempt to transcribe it for violin is not so good I think.”

“No, no,” I assured him. “That was fine. Excellent playing. Please continue.”

“Ah, but the expression on your face said otherwise. You have many fine qualities, but you will never be good at poker. I could see your unhappiness. If the problem is not my playing, perhaps it is the tune itself. It brings back a bad memory, yes?”

Sometimes, Wolfe can be annoyingly perceptive. I am always reluctant to reveal too much of myself to anyone, especially O’Malley, who will invariably exploit any vulnerability in my defences, but I felt that I had to tell Wolfe the truth. It was either that or let him think that I did not like his playing, and that would have hurt his feelings.

“You see it’s like this. That is the tune that greets new students to Belial, my old college at Oxford. The freshers process into the Great Hall on their first day and that is the music that is traditionally played as they walk in and take their seats, to become part of the University. I can’t hear it without thinking of that day.”

“And this was a bad day? An unhappy experience?”

“No, not the day itself. On that day I remember how happy I felt. You see, at home and at school I had always been an outsider, with unsympathetic teachers, ambitious parents and two high-performing much cleverer older siblings who were achieving so much, while I was the disappointing stupid one that always lagged behind. And now, I had been accepted into the University. It was only Oxford, not Widdershins, but as I walked into that hall to the sound of the trumpet, I felt that finally I had arrived somewhere I would be welcome. Somewhere I would belong.”

“But…”

“But of course, I soon found that I didn’t belong there either. I struggled with my studies, and only managed to scrape a duff third class degree. Oxford is very much the reserve of the landed classes, so I had nothing in common with the other students who looked down at me and my middle-class background. The teaching staff treated me with contempt. They regarded students as a nuisance and those that needed support and encouragement doubly so. I walked into that College with hopes of finding a place where I could belong, and found three years of rejection, isolation and unhappiness. Now, I hear that tune and it reminds me that I do not fit. There is nowhere in the world where I belong. How foolish I was to hope that I would ever find such a place.”

“Ah then, we will solve this problem!” exclaimed Wolfe. “We will play this tune at every opportunity!”

“You mean, to remind me of what I am? To manage my expectations?”

Wolfe looked shocked. “No no! That is not what I meant at all!  Now we will make this tune our company song! Because, now you _have_ found a place where you belong. You belong here, with us! Together we are a team are we not Mal?” I’m sure Wolfe thought that I did not notice the dig in the ribs he gave O’Malley.

“Hmph,” mumbled O’Malley. “Oh yeah, a team. Right.” He was about to pitch the dog end of his disgusting roll-up into the middle of the carpet to make me get out the dustbin and brush to clear it up, then thought better of it and, for once, threw it into the fireplace instead.

“Then it is settled! All bad memories of this music will be forgotten and replaced by good memories! Now, when you hear it played, you will remember that you are not alone, there is a place in this world where you belong, and your friends are here to support you!”

He flourished his violin bow.

“And now gentlemen, I give you, ‘The Song of the Heroic Malform Removers’!”

He began to play the music again. For the first time in many years, the tear it brought to my eye was not one of bitterness.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> _Thanks to JWLM from the Widdershins comments board for 'Belial College, Oxford'._
> 
> _If anyone is interested:_   
>  [The Shepherd's Hymn](https://youtu.be/twWjeH81krk)   
>  [John Stanley's Trumpet Voluntary](https://youtu.be/EsnqBBPXwCc)   
> 


End file.
